


realisations (rationalisations)

by ventilation



Category: Justice League vs. Teen Titans (2016), Reign of the Supermen (2019), Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25527859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ventilation/pseuds/ventilation
Summary: he realises a bit too late that the person he just shared a heartfelt talk with looks like someone he knows and - oh no. oh no. (twoshot)
Relationships: Kon-El | Conner Kent & Raven, Kon-El | Conner Kent/Raven
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	1. realisations

Can anyone really blame him for being sorta, kinda narcissistic?

Being born and raised in a household that contains a confident multi _tri_ llionaire father (not that he had known it to be _literal_ for most of the duration of his stay), an egoistic, womanising scientist of an uncle, and an aunt that acts like a babysitter who isn’t paid enough for all the bullshit he’d cause so she lets him get away with everything, naturally he’d turn out the way he did. Not only had he been spoiled, he had been spoiled _senseless._ Everything he wanted? Handed over to him in a matter of mere moments. Everything he would need for the day? Already shoved in Donovan’s luxury baby bag. No one had denied him of anything, much less the praises that he would frequently seek out for.

Plus, did he mention he’s Superman’s clone? With all the superstrength and superspeed and laser eyes and flight and stuff? Yeah, that’s him. _A superhero_.

It would make sense that a literal spotlight would hang above him as soon as he had broken out of the cloning chamber and successfully finished all the necessary tests ensuring his stability. He is a _scientific miracle_ , Luthor had claimed in the earlier parts of his life. “A million-dollar experiment gone right.” So, yeah, _spotlight_. It bathed him in a metaphorical light, amplifying his already loud presence, and luring in everything: scientists of all fields, media, paparazzi, screaming fangirls that might have been behind his missing pair of favourite sunglasses. (Or, three, he doesn’t know. He forgot to keep count.)

And, he loves it, practically _thriving_ from all the due _and_ undue attention. This fact did not change even through spending half of his one year total of existence living as a Kent and not as the Kardashian he’s meant to be. Or, rather _Luthor_ , but, y’know, potato-potahto.

The humble household he had been adopted into is a far cry (—reaching, _very far_ —) from his stay in Luthor’s penthouse. And, not surprisingly, this new lifestyle had mellowed out his overbearing vanity to a lesser annoying and more endurable self-love.

Still, as much as he loves the time he had spent with the Kents, living as though he was a normal teenager in a regular small town (—or as normal as normal can get, what with everyone recognising who he is underneath the blue sweaters and fake glasses at a second glance. How the _heck_ does Clark do it?—), Conner knows what he is, and what he is isn’t _not_ thankful for all the attention.

But, well, there’s always a line to everything, isn’t there? There’s a point where even he would find it to be unappreciated and irritating. And, as he stares at the person across him from underneath the tuft of hair that had slid over his eyes, her figure almost hideously deformed as she continues to drone on and on and _on_ about things she doesn’t understand and doesn’t seem to _want_ to understand—a line had been crossed.

His fingers thrum against the glass table, the soft _tat tat tat_ drowned by the bustle of their surroundings: the pleasant crooning of violins and pianos of the background music, the muffled footfalls of the waiters and waitresses carrying food platters and water refill jugs along the deep red carpet, and the rather loose mouth of his date as she talks about this and that.

He really, _really_ wishes she would talk about _anything else_ other than this and that.

“I mean, without you, they wouldn’t have been able to take down the baddie,” she says, giggling as if it had been a funny joke, and Conner decides that he should stop staring holes at her face before he _actually burns_ holes through it. (He doesn’t need the headline _“Superboy: “And, then I started blasting.” More at eight_ . _”_ shown in every news channel. The tabloids already got so much dirt on him, he doesn’t want mainstream media raising his notoriety any more than it already has.) “Like, I know one of them is Batman’s sidekick, but they don’t really have any powers.”

 _They’re not like you_ , is what she seems to want to convey. It would have been better if she had stated it outright, though. At least then, he could actually agree with her to some extent (—he’s an alien-human hybrid clone, there’s pretty much only one of him in the team—), but she hadn’t conveyed it, choosing instead to gossip about his teammates, finding faults in their beings while assuring him of his credibility as a superhero.

 _They’re not like you. You’re not like them._ It ticks him off.

“Most of them _have_ powers, y’know,” Conner reminds, offering a smile as he runs his finger along his edge of the table. “Like, Beast Boy?”

 _“The person who saved my ass from being pummelled to near-death by that ‘baddie’ you just mentioned? Y’know, that dude?”_ he almost adds, but he bites down the remark and watches as her cheeks flush pink from realising too late of the changeling’s existence. Or, maybe it’s from being caught glossing over the others? Who knows.

“True,” she nods, before taking a forkful of pasta. And, that should have been the end of it. _It should have been_. She swallows. “Speaking of Beast Boy, are the rumors about the earthbending girl true?”

Yeah, _no._

It ends instead with him pretending his communicator had beeped in to notify him of a criminal activity he is to stop, throwing a half-assed, “I’ll see you later, beautiful,” before dashing away from the fancy Italian restaurant he had paid in advance for and flying towards the Titan Tower.

It’s not his worst date, but it’s definitely _the_ _most_ infuriating.

Conner leans against the cool wall, the hum of the elevator vibrating through the surface, as his mind churns, twisting and turning until his head feels like it could explode any minute. What things he is thinking of, he couldn’t really say—they were just too many, most of which are questions wondering _why_ he had even agreed on dating her. (He thinks it’s mainly to piss Damian off, but he’s not really sure anymore.)

And, by _Luthor’s bald head_ , he doesn’t even remember her name.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He shouldn’t have gone out with her. It’s dangerous for both of them, and _fuck_ , he might have screwed up. He’d need to bring this up with Kori soon, just in case someone actually tries to target her thinking that she’s more than just the one meet up to him.

The elevator slows to a stop, and he walks into the common room, noting curiously at the lack of Gar and Jaime fighting over _something_. Without much of a thought, he looks at the watch on his wrist. _19:13._ They’re usually bickering about whatever they had for dinner at this time, sometimes continuing until it escalates into a fight over what they should have for breakfast the next day.

The corners of his mouth quirk upward at the recollection of Donna just straight up decking them after having enough of it one time several nights ago. It had been _hilarious_ —well, until the scarab went full berserk on them and they all had to clean up the mess afterwards.

Huh. “That’s strange,” he mumbles, realising that, not only is there a lack of squabbling, but there also seems to be a lack of presence of _anyone_. He looks at his watch again, tapping the glass to make sure it works fine.

They couldn’t be all asleep now, could they?

Sighing, he runs his fingers through his hair. Although he’s almost certain that no one has the sleep schedule of an average human being, them turning in for the night early isn’t an impossibility. _Damn_ , and he had wanted to challenge Gar for the _Space Cruncher_ high score. (Conner will lose, he knows it (—the trophy in Gar’s room isn’t just for show, after all—), but it’s really more for blowing off his frustrations on the ugly alien bastards than for the competition.)

_Great._

“You’re home early.”

He whips around, shoulders drawn back and hands curled into fists as he gnashes his teeth. A growl escapes him, and, for a moment, he thinks he had gotten the scary Damian Wayne impression down pat.

Well, that is until she smiles, and then he realises it’s only Raven that’s—

His stomach growls, and _oh,_ okay. So, he didn’t get the impression down. 

He fumbles with his words, flustered over the fact that he had been ready to punch her and his battle cry had been his stomach saying it’s hungry. _Ugh,_ oh god, he wants to die, and he feels the tips of his ears catch on fire. “Mmhm.” How _eloquent_ of him.

Her mouth twitches again, the curve of her lips quivering as she stifles an amused chuckle, and it’s only then that he realises she’s the only one in the common room; cloak and all that. The last part of his thought nags at him for some odd reason. “Do you ever change out of your uniform?” Conner asks, wincing shortly after when realises he had inquired thoughtlessly.

Still, Conner isn’t one for backing out of something just because of a minor slip up. Of course, he _did_ back out and fled his date, which he should really have thought out more before accepting, and— _gah._ _Stop thinking._

“I do,” she answers. There’s this look that she gives him. It’s rather … _off-putting,_ for the lack of better term, and he finds himself blinking at the sheer intensity it held before it’s replaced by another, more subdued _something else_ a second after. He does a mental shrug. Probably just a Raven thing. “I guess I just got the whole not-changing-out-of-uniform thing from Damian.”

“If you keep going down that path, you might end up smelling like him,” Conner jokes, and the _something else_ morphs into an entirely new _something._ It’s a bit more pleasant than the last one, he notes, softening the steely edges of her deadpan face, despite the unamused scrunching of her nose.

“You’re kind of right,” Raven tells him, her voice trailing with her as she starts to walk to the kitchen, her cloak swishing around her. “Tea?” she calls over her shoulder, and he decides to follow her.

“Make that hot chocolate.” Conner shrugs off his jacket, folding it over the back of the sofa as he passes by it on his way. “Also, where’s the bird brain anyway?”

“Damian’s at patrol.”

 _Again?_ Incredulously, he asks, “Does that guy even _chill out_?”

“Hmm,” is her response. It sounds noncommittal, but the smile that tugs on her face makes his steps falter. _Oh._ It’s an inside joke. He shrugs away the feeling in the pit of his stomach and continues walking. (Conner may be self-centred, but he’s not _that_ self-centered. He knows when to be jealous and when not to be, and this is definitely a time not to be.)

“The rest?”

“They’re at a concert, I think. Something about a DJRat? Jaime offered to chaperone Garfield and Donna.”

Oh, right, he forgot about that. He coughs into a fist, willing his guilt to go away, because _how the hell did he forget?_ (Gar had been raving about it for days now.) “And, you?”

“Someone has to hold the fort,” she shrugs. “And, not to judge, but DJRat doesn’t really sound pleasant to the ears.”

“Hey, to each their own right?”

“That doesn’t change the fact that they're called DJ _Rat_ _.”_

“Well, _true._ ”

The thrum of her powers can be heard in the air as she waves her hand, and he watches in interest at the dark energy that coats the electric kettle. Once the switch is flipped, the energy recedes back to her fingertips, and he could feel his smile deepen at her show of laziness.

“Must be handy.”

“Magic has lots of uses.”

“I’m a bit jealous,” he jokes, but it’s a particularly loud rumble of his stomach that makes her exhale in mirth. Smooth. Real smooth, Kon. _Gah._

But, Raven is kind, and she opens the refrigerator. “I think we still have some leftover pizza.” A pause as she seems to look through the fridge. “I’m not sure if it’s vegetarian or hawaiian though.”

“Either one’s fine, really. Not a picky eater.” More like, ‘ _can’t really taste anything’_ eater. It had been a power-up of some sorts Lex had given him, you know, in case anything gross landed in his mouth in mid-battle. (Lex had been thinking more of _poison_ , actually. Conner wouldn’t be fazed from the taste of poison in his throat if he can’t taste, which is, to be fair, a justifiable reason—if one ignores the part where it’s just the taste and not the pain and the after effects that are cancelled out. Not that it would have any effect on him, but _still._ ) It doesn’t bother him though. Well, not really. You can’t miss something you never really had, right?

The kettle whistles, its switch flipping back to off, and his eyebrows scrunch in confusion at how fast the water boiled. Then again, the water could’ve already been semi-hot when the kettle had been turned on. But, he takes note of the brand anyway as he retrieves two mugs from the cupboard. Maybe he could buy one for Ma Kent. (Last time he called Smallville, she had been complaining that their old one isn’t working as well as it used to.)

It’s a few minutes of silence—just them working their way around the kitchen. Him: trying to figure out how the fuck one makes (brews?) tea; her: going through the whole process of warming up the pizzas in the microwave. This is kind of nice, he thinks after he finishes stirring both of their drinks. He places both mugs on the island counter before taking a seat.

This is nice, and he mindlessly tugs his tie.

“So, how’d it go?” Raven asks after the microwave _ding_ s and retrieves the plate. She passes it to him. Ah, _hawaiian._

“Hmm?”

“Your date.” She takes a seat on the bar stool nearest to her, and he tries not to be offended when her mouth quirks upward at the result of his attempt at tea-making. Still, Raven takes the mug and lifts it to her lips, and the offence turns into a flustered warmth when she passes him a grateful nod, despite the twitch in her jaw when she takes a sip. “I distinctly remember you telling the team to _“not wait out”_ and _“might be back in the morning,”_ but here you are, not even an hour after you left for your six-thirty reservation at _Adagio’s_. And, may I add, _hungry._ ”

Just because he couldn’t taste didn’t mean he hadn’t wanted to eat the spaghetti bolognese that he had ordered. The pasta from _Adagio’s_ had looked so appetising and smelled so heavenly that it would have been practically a sin not to finish. But, the first five minutes of his date’s tirade on Wonder Girl’s work ethics had him bending forks, and before he knew it, the food had lost its appeal and he had lost his appetite.

But, well, how does he explain _that?_

“Well, the waiters were,” he motions with hands, wiggling them vaguely, before ending with, “ _slow_.” 

Because, y'kow, Adagio means slo— Okay, not the best pun. Not even a _good_ pun, and he cringes at himself.

She lets go of a sound that’s more breath than it is laugh, rolling her eyes at him and his stupid joke. At least the humour hadn’t been lost to her, so it couldn’t have been that lame of an ending (even if it did feel like it’s more his pathetic delivery than the actual joke that has her laughing).

He shakes his head.

“Actually, no, the service was great. It’s just that,” his voice tapers off, fading as he stares at that one pineapple at the centre of his pizza. Halfheartedly, he wonders why there’s the whole “hawaiian pizza is gross/not gross” debate, before taking a bite, deliberately taking a pineapple piece or two. Well, it’s certainly … _mushy_ , but, then again, all food are mushy to him.

Ugh, now he’s thinking about _wanting_ to taste. _God_.

He swallows when he meets her inquisitive, yet patient stare. Conner knows he could just _not_ bring it up, give her some other lame joke, and that would be the end of it. She wouldn’t pry, and he doesn’t expect her to.

But, perhaps that’s the sole reason why he’s setting down the pizza slice back on his plate and leaning forward, elbows on the island table. Because she’s curious but knows not to push. A sharp contrast to what his prior date had been, and _god,_ is it refreshing.

“Do you think I’m selfish?” Conner asks.

Whatever she thought he’d say, it hadn’t been _that_ , and he almost grins at her growing frown. _Almost_.

Conner pushes the plate away, the ceramic scraping against the surface of the table and his teeth gritting rather loudly in something akin to frustration, but both of them know it isn’t aimed at her. “She just kept insulting _everyone_ ,” he huffs as her words seem to replay in the back of his mind, her voice becoming an annoying existence in his head.

It’s really telling how he remembers all the things she said, but not her name.

Raven flinches, and it takes him three seconds to realise that his emotions might have been a bit too loud and invasive to the empath. Hastily, he attempts to keep it under control, but she waves it off, urging him to continue speaking instead. 

He hesitates, eyebrows furrowing at her reassurance, before releasing a sigh. “She said a lot of things, I don’t really know where to begin. She said a lot of … mean stuff, and it just—” 

Conner groans loudly. For having such vivid recollection of the things she said ringing clearly in his ears, he couldn’t, for the life of him, know how to tell them to her. “She said Robin is mean. She said Beast Boy is obnoxious and loud. She said you were dark and gloomy. She said—She said _a lot._ ”

“Well, to be fair, I _am_ dark and gloomy,” Raven smiles, an attempt at trying to ease up his emotions.

“But, you _aren’t,_ ” Conner insists without a second thought, and it takes him several moments until he hears himself too late. Rather, he hears her chuckle, and _then_ he hears himself. “Erm. You certainly _are_ dark and gloomy, but not in the way she thinks you are. She thinks that you’re a witch and—well, that’s—umm. Okay, so you do magic stuff and have like magic spells, but that doesn’t—she— _ergh._ ”

He groans into his hands, and he swears the redness of his skin looks like that of a lobster’s shell. Eloquence and English seems to have left him this evening. “It doesn’t make it right,” he says after a second’s worth of deliberation, cheeks puffed and eyes casted on the floor. “She shouldn’t have said all those things. Not about you, nor about Gar, nor Damian—she shouldn’t have said all those things about _all_ of you.”

“We can’t really control what other people say, Conner. And, it’s their own right to. Even if they aren’t appreciated. It’s not your fault.”

“But, it is though.” Conner sighs as he picks up his mug, fingers tight around the ceramic. He downs it one go, and he tries not to be disgruntled at the lack of taste. (He likes hot chocolate though, but only because it’s something Ma Kent had given him in his first night at Smallville. It’s warm.) “She said all of those things for me. And, I … I kind of get why she did.”

(Because he’s _Superboy,_ and doesn’t Superboy thrive under due and undue attention? Doesn’t he love the attention given to him? It’s because he’s Superboy—Superman 2.0, Superman 2.0.1, ex-LexCorp property, Lex Luthor’s _son_. Narcissistic.)

He breathes in a shuddering air. “But, am I really that selfish that people think I’d enjoy having my friends be insulted in front of me— _for me?_ ”

It’s not like the team can’t handle their own against people’s opinions and words. But, it’s different— _this_ is different, and he sets aside the mug before it cracks under his tightening grip.

(Because, there are just some lines that should never be crossed, and much more than himself, Conner loves his friends, his team— _his family_. Because, despite knowing his reputation is dragged into the mud for his past (and still ongoing) frivolity and that three months of being a Teen Titan wouldn’t change it so quickly, it’s frustrating to continuously try to prove that he _feels_ more than what other people think.)

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Raven starts after a short pause, lips still set in that smile of hers, and he blinks (because it’s not _something,_ and he likes this expression on her face a lot. It’s warm). “I don’t think you’re selfish.” His heart flutters. “A little into yourself, but not selfish.”

(But, at least, for the rest of the evening, he doesn’t have to prove himself to anyone.)

\--

“Was she pretty?”

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been talking, but he’s pretty sure it’s more than an hour after their “cats vs dogs” debate where they had opted to leave the kitchen and settle in the common room, and he shifts a little deeper into the cushions. In the corner of his eyes, he could see her sit on the other couch, legs drawn up and the book she had seemingly pulled out from nowhere is placed beside her, closed. Conner curls to his side to look at her properly.

He answers: “She was pretty cute, actually. Blonde hair, brown eyes. Had an accent.”

“Your type?”

“Ah, no. I don’t really—I don’t have a type, I think. But, I do have an un-type, or whatever it’s called.”

“Yeah?”

“Anyone that looks like Lois.”

“Lois—Lois Lane?” Her eyebrows furrow. “The reporter?”

“Yeah,” he replies, pointedly looking around at anything but her. “Clark’s-to-be-wife. I—uhh, had this ridiculous crush on her—I got over it,” Conner adds quickly, and oh dear, this is _embarrassing._ “And, now it’s just weird. So, I made it a point to steer clear of anyone who remotely _looks_ like her.”

“That’s not an un-type if you consciously decide it is,” she chuckles, and, well, Conner knows she’s a bit right. Still, he shrugs, shoulders awkwardly moving from his current lying position.

“True, but you get the idea.”

Raven hums before she picks up her book again, flipping through it until she finds the page she had stopped earlier. He doesn’t mind. They’ve been drifting in and out of conversations for the past who-knows-how-long, and this is fine. Conner shifts back to lie on his back, and he does not care for the wrinkles on his shirt that had formed from his movements.

His date really _was_ pretty cute. She was pretty in her clothes, and she was adorable when they’d arrived at the restaurant, surprised that he had booked them in a rather nice establishment. And, he remembers chuckling at her reaction. It was cute.

She was pretty cute, just like all his other dates were to him, and Conner hadn’t been lying when he told Raven that he didn’t have a type. 

They didn’t look anything like Lois, but it hadn’t been like he had actively sought out people who aren’t dark haired and amethyst eyed. It really just so happened. But, _ha_ _._ He lets his chuckle ring in his mind, because as if there’s _anyone_ who would look like Lois.

How many people have dark hair and amethyst eyes anyway? (Probably a whole lot of people, but he hasn’t seen one other person yet, _so.)_

He stretches, back arching, and he rises to sit properly. Water. He needs water when he finds an itch in his throat, and he looks at the only other person in the room. “Hey, Rae, want another cup of—” (Her eyes blink from underneath her lashes as she brushes a strand of hair from her cheek. _Amethyst eyes and dark hair._ ) “—tea?”

Ha. Haha—oh _shit._

(Okay, Conner knows he could get wrapped up into himself and his own world, but how the _hell_ had he not noticed? What the fuck?)

\--


	2. rationalisations

Superboy is a lot of things, but he is most definitely not a stalker. Superboy does not  _ stalk. _

Okay, so maybe what he’s currently doing  _ could _ be considered a form of stalking by a few people, but he’s out of his suit so Superboy (quite  _ literally _ ) really isn’t stalking right now. Nope, nuh-uh.

And, anyway, what he (Conner, not Superboy) is doing isn’t even  _ really _ stalking. Just—he waves an imaginary hand in the air, gesturing lamely to no one in particular— _ observing. _

Yeah. Observing. Quite intensely.

His eyes burn into the movement of her arms as she rolls a shoulder, the sleeve of her shirt wrinkling from the action, and he notes eight small creases on her sleeves, three extra from when—ah,  _ fuck. _ This may not be stalking, but this is equally creepy, and he has to force himself to look away from her.

He knows Raven had felt the heat of his gaze, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she could feel the dip and pull of his emotions every time she’s in the same room as he is. She knows the attraction welling up inside him, and perhaps even his current thoughts. (That’s probably the only reason why he’s not smacked in the head with magic or something, because  _ she  _ knows and that she’s  _ okay _ with it. Conner doesn’t know what to make of the confused emotions that realisation had drawn out of him, so he ignores it altogether.)

And to be honest, he doesn’t mind her knowing. Hell, he doesn’t really mind if the  _ whole team _ catches on, in which they probably already had. Disregarding his shame of blatantly looking at her for most hours of the day whenever she’s in the same room he is, he doesn’t really mind that Raven or any of the team knows his …  _ crush _ on her. A lot of people might find it a problem if their secret feelings are not-so secret anymore, but frankly? He finds it better this way. After all, he’s Superboy, and Superboy isn’t really like  _ a lot of people _ now, is he?

But, ah, he’s supposed to be Conner right now, and he closes his eyes before his resolve to not look at her for at least a minute crumbles away.

“Having types” has never been his thing. Conner just likes girls, simple as that. It didn’t really matter how different they looked from one another because they’re all attractive to him. He’d once heard Lex say that it may have something to do with Donovan (—there’s a twitch in his heart at the thought of the man; a tiny jolt that has him digging his fingers into his knee at the whispering memories of frantic gunshots and screams—), but Conner likes to think that it has nothing to do with anyone but himself.

Then again, he’s not just  _ himself, _ is he? Neither is he just a spoonful of Donovan nor a dash of Mercy. No. He’s also half Lex and the other half Superman and he flinches at the thought of the Kryptonian man as the feeling of unease suddenly washes over him.

It’s kind of mortifying, now that he thinks about it, how similar he is to Clark. They’ve got the same hair, the same build as a teen (—there are lots and lots and  _ lots _ of awkward teenage Clark pictures back in Smallville, okay? And, they all look like him - or, is it the other way around?—), the same physical features. Even his eyes are like Clark’s sometimes that he’d flinch every time he sees his reflection in dim light and they’d become a darker shade of blue than Lex’s. It’s really …  _ mortifying. _

Donovan had really hit the mark with the “Superman clone” part that maybe Lex should have given him a larger sum of money for his work. But, perhaps it is due to that unequal distribution of traits from both clone sources (because honestly? Conner is more Superman than he is power-hungry business magnate, no doubt about that) that Donovan hasn’t been paid more.

Who knows really, but just thinking of Donovan makes him think of women, and his stomach twists at the thought, because thinking of women makes him think of Lois Lane — and, _ that _ makes him think that maybe whatever interest he has on Raven is just the Kal-El side of his existence unconsciously being pulled in by anyone that’s similar to Lois.

Conner doesn’t like that thought, and he bites his lower lip, sinking further into his seat in shame and guilt.

Raven doesn’t deserve to be liked  _ just because _ she looks like someone else. Raven doesn’t deserve that  _ at all. _ No one does.

But, as he takes another fleeting glance at her, comfortable against the plush of the sofa, he couldn’t stop the thoughts of _dark hair_ _and amethyst eyes and —_ damn it.

It doesn’t help that her eyes are the same exact shade he’d find in Lois’ in the sunlight. It doesn’t help that in the black of the night, her hair is as dark as Lois. It doesn’t help that she would squint just a tiny bit when she smiles—much like Lois does.

It doesn’t help that he’s reminded of Lois so much in her now.

But, despite all of the similarities, all of the little nuances that remind him so achingly of Lois, all the mannerisms that are uncannily on the nose—despite  _ all  _ of this, Raven is  _ not _ Lois.

From the way her nose crinkles in distaste from just about any kind of coffee-based drink to the way her eyes light up a fraction from the sight of a sweet confection; from the dryness of her humour to the way she’d sometimes leave music playing in her room. From the way she’d take her time perusing over the umbrellas in the for-sale rack to the way she’d wake up later on Sundays than any other day.

Because Lois loves coffee, and doesn’t have a strong liking to sweets; because Lois has a knack for dad humour and she’s not much of a music person. Because Lois always uses one particular umbrella every single time, and she’s never one for early mornings at all.

Raven is definitely  _ not _ Lois — but, these … aren’t these just superficial things? What makes a person separate from another anyway?

“You’re awfully quiet,” Raven says dryly, shattering his line of thought at the suddenness of her statement. Conner watches as she turns another page from her book, her eyes lazily blinking at whatever passage she’s currently on, and for a moment, he sees another person that might have been someone to her. (Her mother? Conner wonders about the softness of her gaze and the small furrowing of her eyebrows that are not quite Raven’s — and, not at all like Lois.)

And, then it’s gone. “You okay?”

He swallows. “Yeah,” his voice is tight, and he coughs. “It’s okay. Just … thinking.”

“Hmm,” Raven hums, eyes still directed on the page she’s at, but Conner knows that despite the usual emotionless façade, it’s really  _ just _ a façade. She cares an awful lot, not unlike Lois, and  _ fuck. _

Conner decides that it is best to just ask the source of his predicament directly before he gets physically sick from his chaotic mental train, and he does so, quietly asking, “Actually, Rae, can you help me? I was, ah — I was wondering what makes a person different from another, but couldn’t come up with any answer.”

A brow is raised. “I didn’t think you were the philosophical type.”

“Well, I have my moments,” he chuckles despite himself.

The corner of her mouth quirks upward, a tease most likely on the tip of her tongue at his previous response.  _ Of course, _ she’d find amusement in that. It doesn’t take more than several moments until sobriety returns to her face though, and whatever quick-witted remark she had is now gone. “It’s not something that can be answered easily. Or, it’s as easy as saying: “we’re all different on a molecular level.” But,” a glance is thrown at him over the edge of her book, “I don’t think that’s what you’re asking. Being philosophical, and whatnot.”

He lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.

She continues: “I’m actually not entirely certain. There’s probably loads of reasons, but … perhaps, an individual’s perception of another person? When someone thinks about finding differences between people, the distinctive qualities are usually easier to pick up, and so goes the opposite. When one focuses on the similarities of two people, it’s more difficult to put them apart.” Raven ends it with a shrug. “Or, something like that?”

It makes  _ sense, _ and his eyebrows scrunch at the several dots in his mind connecting. He doesn’t realise that he hasn’t actually responded back to her though, and he’s forced back from the inner caverns of his mind when she apologises,

“Sorry, I didn’t think I’d have to talk to you about the theories today, so I didn’t prepare a script.”

He blinks. “No, it’s fine. I actually understood a lot.” A pause. “It’s just that, that — that person who can’t differentiate is probably pathetic, huh?” Conner winces from his own words. It tastes like poison, which is weird because he swears he  _ cannot _ taste. Right?

She levels him with a stare. “No, I don’t think they’re pathetic,” Raven tilts her head to the side, blinking slowly. “After all, everyone is more alike with everyone else than they think. One person may not be as courageous as the other person, but they may share the same strand of patience. Doppelgangers exist too. In those ways, no person is ever actually distinct.” She shrugs again, and this time, she places her book down. “What no two person can share is Time though — Time spent together with the individual perceiving, and the history that comes with it. Although, this  _ is _ just a working theory.”

And — oh? Wait.

Because he doesn’t know what exact coffee Lois likes, but he knows Raven is particularly fond of cotton candy. (He’d found out from the first mandatory Thursday-Funday he’d ever been with the Titans. “It was the first sweet thing I ate after escaping Hell, so I’m pretty partial, you could say.”) Because he’s not exactly certain what Lois listens to, but he knows Raven’s playlist is more diverse than one would think. (Her library is full of rock music of all sorts, he’d noticed when she had lent him her phone — but, he’d also recognised songs the rest of the team had recommended she give a listen to placed under her personal day-to-day playlist.) Because Raven is surprisingly someone who likes to pair her accessories with her clothes, and because Raven would often volunteer to take more hours on her Saturday evening patrols that would oftentimes border on being graveyard shifts. Because Lois … He had only seen Lois with an umbrella once, and he’d only often hear about Lois’ sleeping pattern whenever Clark would bring it up, and —

And, suddenly, they don’t seem like superficial things anymore. His fingers tremble, his kneecap feeling like it would burst from the pressure of his grip over it. It’s as though the weight pressing down on his chest earlier is now gone, fading away into nothingness. He doesn’t know what to do, his thoughts processing slowly, until it catches up to him.

_ They’re different, _ and Conner is an idiot.

“Right. Just a theory.”

Raven crosses her leg over the other, and a beginning of an amused smirk on her face. “Mmhmm. Though, it seems that it had helped you anyway.”

But, Raven and Lois — they are  _ both _ kind, and his heart melts at the thought of receiving their kindness. They’re both similar like that, and his breath hitches, his ears quickly growing warm.

“... Yeah. It did.” Yeah, totally an idiot. “Thanks.”

This isn’t him falling in love with Raven, or whatever. It’s just a  _ crush —  _ a growing infatuation stemming from feelings of curiosity and bizarrement at the whole situation. (Because, how is there someone who is so much like Lois and  _ not _ at the same time? But, then again, does it really matter? Lois is Lois and Raven is Raven. There are things he still finds confusing, but, isn’t just that philosophy?)

This isn’t him falling in love with Raven. Nope.  _ Not at all. _

It’s just a crush, and he grins.

“Well now, I’m a bit interested to know what you think of me. Am I similar to someone else in your eyes too? Am I like Superman or Lex Luthor? Because, well, _y’know._ Or _—_ _oh!_ How about that one guy you talked to some days ago? That fan? Yeah. I’m pretty sure he’s around my height, I think. _”_

But, as he lifts his eyes from the ground to look at her again, he thinks that maybe falling in love with her would be okay.

“No. You’re … a lot more tolerable than him.”

(The flush of her cheeks isn’t lost to him when he finally catches her eyes, amethyst eyes sparkling in the sunlight, her lips caught in between that awkward point of smiling and not-smiling, and really. He couldn’t help but want to meet up with his previous date, if only to tell her how wrong she was. Raven isn’t dark and gloomy at all. How could she when she’s so bright and colourful?)

“And, besides, I don’t know them as much as I know you.”

Conner really does think falling in love with her would be okay.

(Lois is the first person he tells of his now-not-crush, and she nudges his shoulder. “She’s pretty,” she comments teasingly, and Conner grins.  _ “The prettiest person I know. _ Sorry, babe, she got you beat.”)


End file.
